


My river runs to thee

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [44]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: #replaceTimGunnwithShale, Alistair gets advice, Bechdel Test Pass, Caitwyn gets dressed up, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - Nature of the Beast, F/M, Fade to Black, Female Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Love, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Quest, Romance, Sweet, Weddings, Zevran and Leliana are the best/worst, nice Wynne, weird protective Sten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 18:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Before Caitwyn Tabris & Co. could leave the Dalish camp, there was one more request from the clan.  That they all stay for the wedding!  Yes, Cammen and Gheyna are getting married, but that's not the only romance in the air that night (cue Phil Collins).  Alistair is anxious, kind of hopeful, and brim full of so much advice his ears are still burning, and Caitwyn, well.  You'll see.Narration switches between the night of the wedding and the day leading up to it.  For maximum comedic effect.Note:This series is fully drafted!  No danger of an unfinished series here.  Updates will be weekly (this one is early because I've been waiting to post it for AGES already), but normally on Sunday.  Much <3 to everyone for reading, leaving kudos and most especially for the comments.  I treasure them like a dragon does gold.  :)





	My river runs to thee

“To the newly bonded couple,” Lanaya cheered, the young Keeper’s hands raised over the heads of her clansman as the sun set and the stars winked to life. The whole clan shouted a word Caitwyn didn’t know, but it tugged at the back of her mind. Still, when everyone raised their cups, Caitwyn did likewise. The wine wasn’t bad. Fruity but not too sweet. 

The blushing bridegroom raised his cup to his wife, but Ghenya grabbed a fistfull of his tunic and pulled him in for a kiss to an even louder round of cheers. Caitwyn’s eyebrows shot up, glancing around her for a familiar face to speak to, but none of her friends were nearby. The only faces she saw were ones marked with vallasin. 

She was among the wedding party, so she supposed it was to be expected.

The feast began in earnest then. It was almost like the kitchen parties from home. No one sat in an assigned place, everyone moving about and taking their food with them as they went. All around her people mingled and chatted by the light of the roaring bonfires that kept spring’s chill at bay. None seemed terribly interested in approaching her, which was fine with her, all things considered.

She edged away from the crowd. Maybe she could slip away and find—her thoughts were interrupted by a hestient cough. 

“Warden Tabris?” One of the clan’s hunters, a man with bright amber eyes, regarded her hopefully. “I don’t suppose you remember me? I looked a bit different when we met. A touch more blood.”

“Right, Deygan, I remember you. Found you injured in the forest. I’m surprised you’re up and about.” She didn’t invite him to join her where she stood, but he closed the distance between them anyway. He brightened at her recollection of him. Caitwyn leaned back slightly, and glanced around for a means of escape.

“That’s right! Well, I saw you standing here by yourself, and I was hoping you might want to dance with me.”

Caitwyn froze, cursing the choice she’d only made just that morning.

* * *

“Warden! Wait!” Caitwyn cocked her head at the voice and turned around as Cammen jogged past the camp sentries. While some of the Dalish were grateful that they were no longer victim to a curse, they were hardly sad to see her and everyone else go. The sentry, the woman who had worn her disdain as openly as the vallaslin on her brow, curled her lip and grumbled at the delayed departure.

Cammen didn’t even seem to notice. “I was worried I wouldn’t catch you. I… I have another favor to ask. If it's not too much trouble!”

“Do you suppose she left him?” Zevran asked idly. Leliana tutted. “Zevran! That is an unkind thing to say.”

The young hunter fidgeted and turned bright red. She’d gone out on a limb for the man, though the why of it was something she didn’t examine too closely. He had gazed at Gheyna with such hopeless adoration, surely it had been pity that had moved her. Or Alistair nudging her to help them.

“Alright, out with it.”

“It’s Ghenya. She… she actually wants to do the bonding ceremony right now! We’re going to be here while the clan fully recovers, and so there’s no reason to stop  _ again _ for the ceremony. And, I  _ did _ get her a pelt last night, after you all came back. So now it’s all official.”

“That’s great news,” Caitwyn said without much enthusiasm. She waited for him to explain himself, though he only beamed at her. A sigh worked its way past her lips. “So if everything is fine, what do you need from me? While I don’t mind helping, we have to get to the Frostbacks.”

“The Frostbacks? Why? The passes won’t be open for a good month!” 

“He is not incorrect.” Sten’s impassive tone had all the joy of a lead bell. Caitwyn frowned up at the giant. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It seemed better to leave quickly. It still does.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan agreed, though she eyed Sten sideways as she did so. “Lingering in these woods where we are unwelcome is unwise.”

“But you aren’t unwelcome!” Cammen protested.

“By you, young man.” Wynne’s grandmotherly tone worked as well on moon-faced young hunters as well as it did on unserious warriors with a love of cheese. Cammen flushed guiltily. Caitwyn readjusted the straps of the pack on her back. That was hopefully the end of the matter.

The hunter, however, had other ideas. “But that’s not what I wanted to say!”

“Well, what is it then?” Caitwyn asked shortly. The tone bounced off the young man like ball.

“Gheyna wants you to be our witness! And I do, too. It would mean much to the both of us if you were there.” He smiled at her with the hopefulness of a puppy. Before Caitwyn could figure out how to get herself out of this, Sten’s grumble of disapproval did it for her.

“Unacceptable,” Sten pronounced. “We must re-provision after winter and cover a great deal of distance. We cannot be delayed by… festivities.”

“But I could help provision you! As a way of thanks. I’m sure Gheyna would approve.” His hopeful smile grew wan and sickly. Sten’s hum was non-committal, but that was near approval. Morrigan scoffed, but Oghren chortled happily while Leliana and Zevran were already whispering excitedly. Caitwyn glanced up at Alistair, who only shrugged as if he didn’t mind one way or another.

She glared into the lush forest. A wedding. They called it a bonding ceremony, but it was all the same. Yet, to her surprise she had no urge to climb a tree and stay there. Like dipping her toes into a pool, she tested the notion of staying a little while longer and found it not entirely off putting.

“Alright. What do I have to do?”

Cammen’s wide smile made his face seem even more round, and he whooped. “You won’t regret this Warden! I promise! Now, you need to learn some words…”

* * *

Alistair hung to the back of the gathering. Toward the middle of the clearing where the wedding party was, the Dalish poured wine and toasted to the happy couple in a way that wasn’t terribly different from the weddings he’d seen at Redcliffe as a boy. Caitwyn had done her part, said the words, but then he had promptly lost track of her. In a field of people with mostly straight hair, her tight curls stood out. Or they should have.

He peered over the heads of the whirling, dancing crowd. Their happy, flushed faces spun all around, but there was no hint of Cait’s dark skin among them. Then, across the open meadow, near a great tree, he spotted her.

Just a distant small figure, but standing opposite her was… another fellow. A familiar uncertainty squirmed along his stomach. But no, Cait said she loved him, and he believed her. She wouldn’t lie to him. He knew that. But should he barge in? Rescue her? Not like she  _ needed _ rescuing, but she might not mind it overmuch. 

“Ahhhhh.” He rubbed the palms of his heels into his eyes. Maker help him, he only wanted… only wanted to… what? 

Well, he bloody well knew  _ what _ . It had all sounded so simple. She’d get tired of the party eventually, and there he’d be, and they’d have  _ juuuuuuust  _ enough wine to not overthink anything, and maybe… but no. Not with his luck.

So much for planning.

* * *

Alistair splashed the cold river water on his face, taking some of the burn out of the nicks he’d given himself shaving. “Thanks for that, Leliana.”

“Not at all a problem, Alistair.” She retrieved the small mirror and glanced at her reflection to check her own hair. “After all, we must look our best!”

“This is hardly a  _ ball _ .”

“Oh, no, of course it isn’t. But still, it is important, diplomatically. Just think what this might do for the Warden’s reputation amongst the Dalish. If we are all polite guests, then future relations might be less hostile.”

Zevran sighed dreamily. “Ah, would that were the case, my dear, but the Dalish so do love to cling to old things. Old gods, old stories, old grudges. But come, let us speak of less dour things. For weddings are rife for entertainment of… all sorts.” 

Leliana and Alistair rolled their eyes in near perfect unison. “It’d be shocking if he weren’t so predictable,” he drawled. Zevran turned to him, brown eyes glinting dangerously.

“Have you not given it  _ any _ thought, Alistair? None at all. An evening of wine and song? The blush of a new union? Surely, there is no better time to continue to  _ woo _ our dearest Caitwyn.”

“What? Look, not that it’s any of your— _ either _ of your business, but I’d say Cait is already wooed, thank you. Wait, would be  _ woo’d _ , or  _ wooéd _ ? You know, probably not important.” The rambling had made their eyes glaze over, which meant they might not notice how his ears were on fire. Leliana, however, tapped one finger thoughtfully to her lips.

“Alistair, do you and Caitwyn  _ only  _ sleep at night?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

Zevran’s jaw dropped, and the Crow’s shock would be funny if it wasn’t aimed at  _ him _ or  _ about this _ . “You mean to tell me, you have done nothing but  _ sleep _ beside her? It has been more than two months!”

“Well, not everyone is like you!” Alistair threw his hands up and stalked away. They weren’t stupid, and Cait hadn’t been able to hide her struggles entirely. They had to know that she wasn’t, wasn’t ready. Quick footsteps followed him, and Leliana placed a hand on his arm. He slowed down, and Zevran spread his hands in apology.

“I am sorry, my friend. You are correct, not everyone is like myself. Come now, let me make it up to you. I have some ideas for—”

“No! No, we aren’t going there,” he protested. He growled and ran a hand over his face, but it ended up more a sigh. His shoulders slumped forward. “Look, I get it. You’re both trying to help, but.”

“But what, Alistair?” For a moment Leliana looked more like the Chantry sister she was trying to be than the Orlesian bard she was. He kicked at the ground.

“I don’t want to hurt her. I  _ can’t _ hurt her. And I know it hurts if… well, that  _ it _ can hurt.” His heart beat fast and unsteady in his chest at even thinking that he’d be the reason for Cait’s pain. It was just what men, human men, had been doing to her her whole life. Bulling into her world, doing what they wanted, not thinking about her at all. 

“Alistair,” Leliana said, taking his hands in hers. “It can hurt, but it does not have to. Surely, Caitwyn wishes to do more than sleep next to you?”

“Uh, maybe?” He frowned, trying to think if he could say for certain  _ what _ Caitwyn wanted. She snuggled up to him a good deal, and they kissed. A lot. Once even in the tent, in the dark, and she had been so warm and the bare skin of her shoulders so smooth and—he shook his head to clear it. 

“My friend, I can say that she most certainly does.”

“I would have to agree. She was not always so easy to read, it is quite endearing how she watches you.’

“She watches me!?” Leliana made a small moue of laughter, and Zevran chuckled. Alistair groaned in misery. “Fine, she watches me and. Well, what do I do about any of this?!”

“As I said, I have some ideas,” Zevran said airily.

“And,” Leliana said as she contemplated his hands. They were alright hands. He kept them clean. Maybe needed to trim his nails. That kind of thing seemed to matter to Cait. “We can talk about your hands.” 

Bard and Crow grinned at him, sharp and bright. Alistair swallowed heavily, and braced himself.

He stopped blushing an hour later.

* * *

“Oh, well, you see,” Caitwyn faltered. Where were the others? She could use a bit of help right now, but no. The warmth of the bonfires and the wine made it hard for her to think, like she had a fog inside of her own head. She should know better than to drink at all, really. No Warden constitution for her, it seemed. “You see…”

“Deygan, there you are.” A white haired woman, the halla herder, came to Caitwyn’s rescue. 

“Ellora, oh, I didn’t notice you there.” The hunter edged away, but the softly spoken woman gently took him by the elbow.

“Then you should practice noticing your surroundings more,” the herder admonished. “You know you’re to be resting. Lanaya asked me to make sure you didn’t exert yourself and undo her good work. Come now, we should go join Sarel and the others.”

“But I’ll never find a dance partner if I sit with those old men,” he whined. 

Ellora turned a deaf ear to her newest charge’s complaints and regarded Caitwyn warmly. “You look lovely tonight, Warden Tabris. I am certain you will catch many an eye if you are not careful.”

Caitwyn glanced down at her linen shirt, bodice, and breeches. They were nice enough, she supposed, but after all the fuss she endured for them, they didn’t seem all that special. She was about to say as much only to find Ellora had already dragged the would-be suitor away. A pent up breath wooshed out of her, and she drained the rest of her wine. Someone poured her more, and the press of bodies and the bonfires turned the crisp spring night cloying. It was too bloody warm, her outfit made it hard to breathe.

How had she ever been talked into wearing this get up anyway?

* * *

“What, pray tell, is this new horror?” Morrigan’s dry tones underscored the sardonic sweep of her eyes over the sight that was before her.

Leliana knelt with pins held between her lips while Caitwyn stood on a tree stump like she was a grand lady at some fancy dress fitting. Lace—Maker alone knew where Leliana had gathered such lace or how she had kept in such good condition—was pinned to every hem of the shirt and bodice alike. 

Caitwyn wondered if it was possible to burst into flames without magical aid.

“ _ This new horror _ , Morrigan,” Leliana said primly as she pinned another ruffle to where ruffles probably shouldn’t go. “Is called getting ready for a wedding. And Caitwyn must look her best. She  _ is _ in the wedding party, after all.”

Morrigan’s lip curled. “Ah yes, the dubious honor of witnessing two people pledging themselves to a life of tiresome monogamy before gods that probably do not even exist. Why anyone would willingly enter into such an arrangement is beyond me.”

“For  _ love _ , Morrigan.” Leliana’s cheeks puffed with agitation. Caitwyn fidgeted, and winced as a needle broke through the fabric and nicked her side. Leliana gasped. “Are you alright? You must stay still, Caitwyn.”

“Sorry, right. Not used to being, well.” The last time she had stood for a fitting had been two days before her own wedding. A dress she and Shianni and her aunties had worked on for over a year. It hadn’t been much, but it had been hers.

She wondered whatever had happened to it, the tattered and bloody thing it had become.

But that wasn’t her anymore. Instead, she cleared her throat and gave Morrigan a tentative grin. “Well, agreement with the institution of marriage or not, no harm in looking nice is there? So what do you think?”

“You wish to know my opinion of this,” Morrigan waved her hand at her and Leliana, “attire?”

“Honest opinion, yes.”

“It is hideous.”

Leliana flushed scarlet and shot to her feet, the pins falling from her lips. “ _ You _ say this is hideous? You, who lived in a  _ swamp _ ? This happens to have been a style in vogue for young women in Orlais but three years ago!”

“Yes,  _ I _ say this hideous. It does not suit her in the slightest. Caitwyn is slim, if you have not noticed, and you would obscure her in ruffles,” the witch scoffed Caitwyn bit her lip and tried to ignore the sniping. They were always sniping.

“The ruffles highlight her curves!” Leliana’s protest was accompanied by vigorous pointing, which Caitwyn did not quite appreciate. The birds didn’t seem to either, as they flitted away.

“Of which she has little compared to some,” Morrigan drawled, eyeing Leliana up and down. Caitwyn frowned down at herself. She  _ was _ rather trim. Even more so after the better part of a year on the road, but she was feminine looking, wasn’t she?

“Morrigan! That is a cruel thing to say!”

“Tis, however,  _ true. _ ”

While Morrigan and Leliana bickered, Caitwyn twisted about, trying to see her own backside. It was hard to tell, but she thought it was alright. They did walk a lot, and she hopefully looked womanly from behind. But what if she didn’t?

“I thought you two were friends!”

“And does not honesty behoove the  _ good _ friend?”

Leliana puffed up like an angry bird, and opened her mouth to let fly with some sort of insult when a heavy stomp thudded through the small clearing. From the dark of the trees, the tell-tale glow of Shale’s crystals confirmed the golem’s presence. Her arrival quieted the argument, and the golem clapped her hands together with the subtlety of an avalanche.

“What is this? A feminine gathering and discussion of clothes? And  _ I _ was not invited? How terribly rude, and short-sighted since you are clearly in need of my womanly advice.” The golem hummed thoughtfully and then nodded decisively. “She needs to be shiny, not frilly. Something to match her eyes, like when my crystals match. It is so much more pleasing to match, is it not?”

Leliana drew in a breath, as though she was about to yell, and Morrigan rolled her eyes. But in the middle of indignation and derision, the two women glanced sharply at each other. Caitwyn was suddenly very, very still. As still as a cornered fox while three pairs of eyes—blue, yellow, and glowing white—fixed squarely on her. 

“Morrigan, I have some fine cloth, do you think you could,” Leliana trailed off and wiggled her fingers.

“Tis a frivolous use of magic, but if it will banish such vile amounts of lace, then it will be for a good cause.” Morrigan cocked her head and glanced back at Shale. “Golem—Shale, might you contribute some gems. Malachite would be best.”

“Ooooh, yes. Then Caitywn and I shall both be shiny!”

Caitwyn fought not to run as her friends grinned at her with terrifying eagerness. Not even her aunties had been this bad before her own wedding.

* * *

Alistair sighed and shook his head, clearing it. No, he could go over there and pull Cait away from what was surely an unwelcome suitor. He raised his head and she… was gone.

“Oh sweet Maker, of course,” he muttered while he searched for any hint of her. If she’d been spooked by that hunter, it was entirely possible he’d never find her. Unless… He broke into a trot, dashing by the bench laden with food and snatching up a sizable deer haunch to the startled horror of a bevy of Dalish ladies.

“Sorry about this, very important,” he said as he swept past them. The unmistakable  _ shem _ followed him, but that didn’t bother him much. He’d been getting nasty looks from the second the clan had realized he and Cait were more than simply fellow Wardens.

The whole sharing a tent thing had been a bit of a tip off, true.

But right now, he had a dog to find, and hope that none of the clan decided to switch from glaring daggers to throwing daggers. The once this afternoon had certainly been enough.

* * *

“There, I have done what I could after our dear bard dashed off. I do believe even our dwarven friend might be considered dashing. If one does not examine him too closely, that is,” Zevran said smugly. Oghren squared his shoulders, and even Alistair would have been forced to admit that the warrior looked fairly impressive from a martial standpoint. Had managed to clean and tidy up his beard, too. Not a crumb of food to be seen in it.

“Heh heh, you think I might convince a few of those nimble elf ladies to spend a bit of time with me?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand, he ruined it.” Alistair gave Zevran a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “You did your best, Zevran. You really did.”

“Watch it, boy! I might look good enough to steal the girl away from you!”

“Oghren, I would love to see you try.”

“Bet you—”

“Oh look, the shem and the stone child are squabbling,” a voice drawled. Three hunters emerged from the trees like ghosts. The one in the middle was that nasty woman who had insulted Cait when they’d first arrived. The other two had little to recommend them, other than being the tallest elves Alistair had ever seen.

The red-headed man sniffed and eyed Zevran with open disdain in the curl of his lip. “And their pet city mongrel has been serving them well, no doubt.” 

It was the flinch that did it. Zevran was nearly as composed as Cait could be, but that flinch set off a spark in the back of his head, snaking down the fuse of his temper. He stood to his full height and glared down at the three vicious shits. Beside him, Oghren glowered and glared  _ up _ . “Don’t you three have anywhere else better to be?”

“Watch yourself,  _ dwarf _ ,” the brown haired one spat. A knife flashed in his hand and quick as a blink lodged itself in a tree. “Or the next one goes between your eyes. Whatever you did for us, that doesn’t give you the right to be here.”

“Pretty sure we were invited, or am I mis-remembering that? But then, you were there, weren’t you?” Alistair asked of the woman in the middle. She spat at his feet and her knuckles were white around the hilt of her sword. Then Zevran appeared between them, one hand pushing back on Alistair’s chest though he only warded off the three Dalish hunters.

“Now, now, would it not be terrible manners, my friends, to start a fight on a wedding day? Surely the bride would be most upset. With all of us.” Zevran put on his most guileless expression, which was one of the least trustworthy expressions Alistair had ever seen, but the words were true enough. With deliberate slowness, the hunters let their hands fall away from their weapons though their mouths all twisted with open disgust.

“You,” the woman said, poking Zevran in the chest. “All of you, stay away from the women of this clan tonight. Do you understand?”

“Too skinny anyway,” Oghren said with a snort. Alistair breathed out slowly and tugged Zevran away from the armed and still angry hunters.

“Not helping, Oghren, but yes, we can promise to do that. Um. Can’t we, Zevran?”

“Hm, oh yes, Alistair. I, Zevran Arainai, formly of the Crows of Antiva, do pledge to you that I shall not so much as  _ speak _ to any women of this clan tonight. And I am, as my friends know, a man of my word.” Topping off the promise with an ingratiating smile, Zevran spread his hands as if waiting for acceptance. The three hunters exchanged glances and raised their chins with a haughty air.

“Very well. But we will be watching you. All three of you,” the woman threatened before the hunters slunk away once more. Alistair breathed out slowly and laughed nervously.

“Haha, well, that was—” Zevran clapped a hand over Alistair’s mouth and cocked his head, listening. He shoved the hand away, but remained quiet until Zevran clapped his hands together and grinned.

“Elves of any kind have sharp ears, my friend, as you should well know.”

“Rutting high and mighty sodding  _ elves _ . Like your kind better, Crow,” Oghren said, slapping Zevran heartily on the back. The Antivan winced, but still smiled. “Though, gotta wonder. You  _ really _ gonna stay away from their womenfolk?”

“I am a man of my word! However,” Zevran said slowly as he tugged his tunic back to rights. “I said nothing about their  _ men _ .”

Alistair barked a laugh and slung an arm around the shorter man. “Zevran, I wish you all the luck in the world tonight. Most sincerely.”

“Me too! Hope you give it to those lads real good!” Oghren boomed heartily. Then his face scrunched up in thought. “Unless you like it the other way around. Then have fun with that, too.”

Alistair sighed, his head falling forward into his hand. “Aaaaand, he ruined it. Again.”

“Oh no, for once, I do believe he made it better,” Zevran said, sauntering to the dagger lodged in a tree. “After all, they will be watching me most closely. I wonder how long they will, ah, last, if you will forgive the pun.” The assassin’s grin was sharper than the edge of a blade, but then he brightened. “And speaking of lasting, I have some more advice for you my young friend!”

“No! No, I’m brim full of advice!”

“Wait! You gave him advice without old Oghren around? Lad, I’ve had my share women, and there’s lots you need to know!”

“Oh Maker, stop!” he cried and clamped his hands over his ears. It was childish and stupid, but if he had to hear Oghren list euphemisms one more time, it wouldn’t be  _ Caitwyn _ who turned pale at the thought of the steamy bits.

* * *

It was warm. Very warm. Caitwyn picked at her linen shirt, and tugged on the iridescent green bodice to try to encourage air to circulate over her skin. The clothes  _ were _ very nice. Better than that blue tunic from the Circle’s stores. But much more restrictive, which meant warm. She took another sip of wine, which was nice until it made her even warmer.

She wove through the crowd, ducking and slinking through small gaps to try to find a way to fresher air. She needed better air. That was it. The cold, crisp air of spring would clear her head and do her a world of good. 

Then her shoulder collided with someone, her goblet falling to the ground in a splash. “Sorry!”

“It’s quite alright, Caitwyn.” There was laughter in Wynne’s voice as she steadied Caitwyn’s wobble. “You seem to be enjoying yourself. And I must say, you do look lovely tonight. Though, might I suggest a little something?”

“Oh, what? Don’t say anything frilly. Leliana tried to get me in something frilly, and it was awful.”

“No, nothing like that, just a little something.” With a flick of her wrist, a small bouquet of flowers appeared in Wynne’s hand, and the mage tucked them behind Caitwyn’s ear. “There,” she said, patting the blooms gently, “perfect.”

Caitwyn tentatively raised her hand to her hair. The petals were velvety and plump under her fingers, and there was an echo of Adaia in the gesture, in the pride that shone in Wynne’s blue eyes. 

“Thank you.” It was just the wine that made her voice thick.

Then the old mage smirked. “Now you should find that young man of yours before someone else does.”

* * *

“I do not approve of this frivolity.”

“So you’ve said, several times,” Caitwyn said. Sten loomed over her while she teased Matheor with a stick. Her dog’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, but his eyes tracked that stick like it was a piece of meat. “But you aren’t objecting to the hunters re-supplying us.”

“That has a purpose. Events such as this.” He waved his hand about at the garlands of flowers going up between the trees, made by the Dalish children and strung up by the older youths. “They distract from one’s duty.”

“Well, no one said you had to attend, Sten.” Then she turned back to Maethor. “Want the stick boy? Yeah? Well?”

“I was not planning to attend. However, that is not the point, kadan.”

Caitwyn sighed and flung the stick as far as she could. Maethor chased after it, for all the world like a puppy and not a trained war dog. Watching him, she couldn’t help but smile, but then she regarded Sten and the smile faded. “Then what  _ is _ the point? No wait, don’t tell me. It’s about me, isn’t it? It’s about me being frivolous and making choices that you don’t agree with, let alone understand. Am I close?”

Violet eyes narrowed, and the muscles in Sten’s jaw twitched. “Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you say what you really want to say and have done with it?”

“Because you are kadan to me.”

“And that’s why you’ve been sitting on this grumble of yours? Whatever it is?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as your kadan, I’m asking you, just bloody well tell me. I’d rather you say something than sit there like a sullen lump.”

“I am no lump.” Sten stood ramrod straight, indignation in every line of him. Then Maethor returned, slamming excitedly into Sten’s legs, eliciting a surprised grunt. Stick still in his mouth, Maethor turned large, pleading eyes on the qunari. “Not now,” he told the dog.

Maethor delicately let the stick fall from his mouth at Sten’s feet. Sten remained impassive. Maethor cocked his head and whined. With a grumble, Sten picked up the stick and flung it further than Caitwyn could ever hope to manage. The Mabari barked happily and tore off once more. Sten sighed. “Very well. If you must know my  _ grumble _ , as you call it, is that Alistair is inadequate. Since your people insist on pair-bonding, should you not choose a partner that is stronger?”

“For the love of, first Morrigan, now  _ you _ ,” Caitwyn muttered. She raised her chin and with tight, controlled movements, placed herself square to Sten. “You’re not my father, nor my kin, and even  _ if _ you were, I’m a Warden and a woman grown, so I don’t have to justify my choices to you or anyone.  _ But _ .” Her voice cracked like the face of a glacier giving away. “I’ll not have you insulting Alistair like that, you hear me? You see what? A foolish man who refuses a throne? Well, I see a man who knows who he is and where he wants to be and is doing all he can to not be moved into something he never wanted. I see a man who is patient, and caring, and gentle, and chooses to keep being that when the world—and people like you—tell him to be tougher and meaner. So that? That’s  _ strength _ . And if you don’t agree, you can bloody well fuck off.” 

Caitwyn’s nails bit into her palms, and her heart flung itself against her rib cage. Slowly, she uncurled her fists and relaxed her shoulders, but she did not break off her glare at the qunari. Sten held her gaze until Maethor trotted back, original stick traded in for an entire branch. With the leaves still on it. Happily, the dog placed the new offering at Sten’s feet.

The qunari regarded it solemnly before picking it up and breaking off a more reasonable portion. He threw it for her dog, and Maethor chased after the new stick. “I would not leave you, kadan. Not now.”

“Then get over it. I’d like to see if I can actually have fun at a wedding.”

* * *

“Maethor!” Alistair called, “here boy! Got a nice bit of deer for you!” He whistled, drawing a few frowns and stares and a few titters. Didn’t matter, nope, not a bit. Just had to find the dog, and he could find Cait, and then… well, everything got a bit fuzzy after that. Maybe things would clear up once he saw her. Probably. Or not. 

What was the advantage of being tall if he couldn’t find anyone even if he could look over all their heads?

Something hit him in the small of the back, and he whirled only to find a flushed young elven huntress. “Oh, sorry, terribly sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, grinning drunkenly up at him with hungry amber eyes. Alistair raised his hands, and a bead of sweat dripped from his temple. The haunch of deer drew her attention, and she frowned. “You hungry? All tall like you are, you must have quite an… appetite.” 

“What? This! No, not for me. For a dog. You’ve seen him around here? Mabari breed,” he rambled, backing away from her. And most certainly with his hands where any angry hunters could see them. Just in case they’d gotten fed up with watching Zevran. “Friendly, but you know, war dog, so—”

“Alistair?” The lilt of Denerim’s Alienage cut through the gibbering terror.

“Cait! Oh, thank the Maker, you’re here. Been looking all over for you.” A smile slowly stole over her face as she looked him up and down. Ears burning, he hung his head not sure where he could rest his eyes. Not sure where was safe. But dear Maker, she was a vision. The light of the bonfires made her dark skin glow, and her eyes glinted wild and green. And there were flowers in her hair, those short curls that his hands ached to touch. 

“What’s with the side of deer?” she asked, and then glanced past him. “And the huntress smiling at your backside?”

“Um, I can explain, just one moment,” he said, unceremoniously shoving the haunch of deer at the young woman. She took it, blinking owlishly. Brushing his hands on his tunic, he sidled to Cait’s side. “Was looking for you, got surprised. Can we please go somewhere else?”

“Much as I want to know why a side of deer was necessary to find me,” she trailed off, deft fingers sliding along the line of his tunic. “Somewhere else sounds good.”

Covering her hand with his own, the rest of the world fell away. The bonfires, the laughing, the dancing, and especially the drunken huntress. Her hand was so small in his, but strong. She was stronger than she gave herself credit for, but he knew how she pushed herself. Holding her gaze, he spoke softly. “Are you sure? We… we can just…”

“Alistair,” she interrupted. Her mere voice could stop him in his tracks, that lilt going straight past his ears and into his chest. She licked her lips, her chest rising and falling as her breathing shortened, her shirt and bodice doing little to hide her curves. Nervous, she was nervous. He should drop it, not have said anything, shouldn’t have—“Let’s go.”

* * *

Arms hugged around her middle, Caitwyn sat on the blanket in the middle of the forest, legs curled underneath her. It was a lovely spot, a small clearing by a secluded pool fed by a waterfall. The spring-blooming trees swayed overhead like dancers at the wedding. Away from the press of people, the breeze chilled her skin and made her shiver. 

“Oh, um, you, chilly? Right, bit cold away from the fires.” Alistair’s jangling voice held an edge, and Caitwyn watched him out the corner of her eye. It had been easier to be bold at the wedding, but here. He’d obviously planned something. Biting her lip, she made herself scoot across the blanket and pressed her shoulder against his side. He started, locked in ice for a moment, and then he carefully wrapped an arm around her. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder, and a tendril of warmth unfurled to her center. 

And her chest tightened with the urge to flee.

Raising her eyes, she examined his face. The long nose, and deep set hazel eyes, the faint freckles she could just make out in the starlight. Shifting up to her knees, her fingers hovered over his brow, his cheeks. He gulped and gently let his hands trace down her back. Even though her linen shirt and bodice, the heat of him surrounded her. Warm, warm like the sun, like a well-tended hearth. 

Like a home. 

“Cait,” he said softly. “It really is alright, we don’t. I mean, you’re… I can tell your afraid.” She frowned, and he chuckled. It rumbled his chest. “You hide behind your face when you’re afraid.”

She huffed, and his mouth curved in that crooked grin, even if it was a bit awkward around the edges. Though, she adored when he was caught between being charming and uncertain. Shaking her head, she picked at the fabric of his blue tunic. “I’m sorry. I thought I was past this.”

“Don’t think there’s a time limit on  _ this _ .”

“No, I mean. It’s not. Alistair, I’m not afraid of  _ you _ .”

“Oh, that’s good! I mean, last thing I want is you to be afraid of me. But, um, what are you afraid of, then?”

Her hands stilled, and her gaze went out of focus. “That, that when. When I look up, it won’t be you.” Throat closing up, Caitwyn blinked rapidly, refusing to be dragged back down into the dark. Into the dark of her own mind where cruel, twisted faces waited. Where they always waited for her. 

Alistair pressed her to him, arms tightening around her. Strong arms, solid shoulders, real. Real and here, smelling of soap and salt and a bit of something that was just  _ Alistair _ . She curled into him. “I want it to be you.”

“I, uh,” he stammered quietly. “I want it to be you, too. I just, uh, don’t know where to, um. Start?”

“Me either.” A laugh worked its way past her nerves, shaky and jagged, but making her lighter for it. “I mean, how do we go from kissing and a bit of cuddling to well,  _ more _ ?”

Sitting up straight, Alistair exclaimed, “Hands!” Caitwyn peered up at him, confusion writ on her face. A blush crept up his neck and made his ears all but glow in the night. “Instead of other things, we could just touch? With hands only. Right? Just, um, next step. Not trying to do it all in one go, right?”

The idea ticked over in her head. Taking one of his hands, she examined it. Long fingered, strong, yet gentle with her. “That sounds...” The cotton of his tunic was soft under her fingers, and she tugged it back to see more of him. And that was what he wanted too, to see more of her. To touch, to know, to love beyond what words could do.

The apple of his throat bobbed uncertainly, but her hands were steady as she traced his nose, his mouth.

“Sounds?” he asked, voice suddenly husky. A quick glance up, his eyes were fixed on her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Gently, careful even in the middle of his own desire, he stroked her jaw, her ears, her neck. Lips parting with a puff of breath, Caitwyn shivered but not for the chill in the air. Want pulsed between her legs, and the lingering urge to run vanished.

“Perfect,” she whispered into the hush of the night. Then she kissed him, long and sweet, and their hands found each other in the dark.


End file.
